


We were born with nothing, and

by fvartoxin



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, I barely remember writing the half of this, Pregnant Character, The fucking "can u get pregante?" video is on his insp playlist because I'm sadistic, Yes this is the Jonathan Crane I use in DCCRP, actually don't call him Jon either, can you BELIEVE this man named himself after Johnny Cash?, he's real weird about it, if there's ever slight inconsistencies in my work know I write while sleep-deprived, it's Jonny [but don't call him that], perhaps someday I will upload more ACTUAL ROLEPLAYS from there, the audacity, touches on an event in my personal Crane's backstory, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvartoxin/pseuds/fvartoxin
Summary: ....we sure as hell have nothing now. [Bastille, "Things We Lost in the Fire"]Attempted destruction of the Keeny family manor, circa 1985.
Kudos: 1





	We were born with nothing, and

**Author's Note:**

> This particular Scarecrow is specific to a Discord community that I'm a member of. I don't make his being transgender into a huge spectacle; it's rather a facet of the character that is barely touched upon in-RP if at all. I'm 99% sure I've alluded to the fact that he was GAY more than that, and even then that was only two or three times over the course of the little over half a year I've been playing him. 
> 
> Yes, his EARLY backstory takes a page out of Scarecrow: Year One. Yes, somehow people like this man as a character. I am very happy about that, but don't stan him, he's intentionally killed a solid 3 people; one being his great-grandmother. As for the other two, I'm going to leave them unspecified for now. Make y'all wonder.
> 
> No, he would not dare potentially hinder fetal development with excess testosterone. He's only solidly been on T since about 41, 42 and he's in his early 60's now as I play him. He was 35 in this piece. 
> 
> This would have been a lot more descriptive, and explored his thought process more, but sometimes I do not know why I do the things I do, and I still think this is passable enough.

Sometimes, the phenomenon more commonly referred to as 'pregnancy brain' made one do stupid, foolish things.

And sometimes, one just did stupid, foolish things because one felt like it; then handwaved it away as a consequence of one's being heavily pregnant.

To be fair, the human brain didn't fully develop for quite some time. 'Till roughly 25, to be exact.

He was in his mid-30's.

He couldn't even overlook it in the name of science, now.

Damn it all to Hell.

In any matter, his case was that of the latter. He'd been meaning to visit too-sunny, backwoods Arlen a third time anyhow, finish what he started and all. It was about time; the forcible dismissal (who could face the fact that they'd been _fired_ from their first real job, after so many dedicated years of work?) from the university's faculty had provided him with a convenient opportunity. He'd need to find another job, naturally, but that could wait a while. Not _forever_ given that he rather enjoyed being able to eat on occasion and that he wasn't particularly fond of the idea of freezing his ass off at night when the temperatures dropped, but a while.

 _'Hup!'_ And a final load of salvageable knicknacks, along with the Polaroid he'd been using for record-keeping, went into that old, rust-red/orange clunker he called a vehicle (well, pickup truck). Not that there was much to salvage to begin with. Cursed land, or something akin to it, was cursed land. Plain and simple. There was nothing here but bad blood, in a broad sense. Therefore, it had to go. Even if he'd likely be unable to burn the whole thing to the ground, given that he was only one person and the old manor house was, well, _a literal manor house_. Though, you could just as well have called it an old-timey mansion, it was certainly large and ornate enough. Never mind the aviary that had caused him so much pain as a child. It did fine as a standing monument to what had once been, let alone a makeshift mausoleum.

At least fire spread fast once started. That he'd learned long ago.

Trawling through the place to see what else could be taken back with him to that dusty apartment in Gotham City's Narrows had been exhausting enough; of course, the strain of that had only been amped up with the fact that he was currently with child. Hypermobility and long flights of rickety stairs weren't a good combination to begin with, and he slumped against the side of his trusty truck with a dull _thump_ in an attempt to catch his breath. It rasped from his throat in long _hraaaaa_ 's, the likes of which he'd find almost fitting (not to mention amusing) as he reflected on this day decades later. Other than that, the ever-present but faint _chirp, chirp_ of crickets, and the occasional rustle of feathers from some crow or two that really should've been long dead, no sound punctuated the blazing afternoon. As he glanced up at the Sun, he shielded his dubiously-functional eyes with a clawlike hand; then turned, peering out at the stretches of partially-dead, yellowed corn and wheat fields which surrounded him for what had to have been miles.

A few more moments to rest, and then it was time. He'd spent the better part of three-and-a-half hours unceremoniously throwing many of the more flammable items in a nice, central pile in what had once been the foyer (but which was now a rodent and insect-infested shambles). Why bother to neatly stack items when the building as a whole was intended to be torched? There simply wasn't a point to order of any kind.

Now, he was no arsonist, and he sure as hell wasn't about to make a career out of this. Leave that to the 'firebugs' as they were called among Gotham's lower-class; still he'd gladly agree that flame was a handy tool. Were it capable of thought, perhaps the two-gallon can of gasoline at his side, as well as the three others still in the truck bed, would agree. He turned his head towards the looming, largely slate gray figure of the manor house again. (As if every detail wasn't _already_ seared into his memory for as long as he lived.) Here went nothing.

He unscrewed the container with a deft twist of one wrist and so, with purposeful strides, entered his childhood dwelling once again. Seconds, then minutes, then at least another hour if not two (but who was counting?) passed by in a blur of movement; from outside to the truck, and a designated place to piss, and back inside. All the while, he was hopping about like a man gone mad. And, given what he'd already been diagnosed with, he imagined that in some way he was. This, and he was smiling as if he'd been told his worst enemy had just died. He'd always been told that he shouldn't smile; genuinely, it looked too unnatural for his face, wider than the horizon line with enough ivory teeth to keep a dentist afloat all on its own. Naturally, this didn't stop him in the least...until his facial muscles started to ache.

And then he withdrew the matchbox from its confines of disgustingly bracken-brown tweed. Better to be quick about this, to get out of here before the natural light began to fade. The only thing resembling a ghost in Keeny Manor was him now, that was for certain; but he'd always been a little superstitious. Habits instilled in one by one's upbringing tended to die hard. That, and his night vision was absolutely awful to the point of being practically nonexistent. Best not to die in a car crash if it could be helped.

No time for sentiment. A handful of amber and crimson flames came to life in his skeletal fingers. As the rapidly-charring strips of wood fell he ran, and gave the matchbox not a glance further as he tossed it into the flames behind him.

Logically, no one intelligent would hang around at the scene of a crime which they perpetrated. But while he did take a certain well-deserved pride in his having clawed himself to the top of the metaphorical tower, he willingly remained, huddled in the shade provided by the truck with his clothing slicked to his too-thin frame by sweat - and bulging in the wrong places, arguably. But, if someone in Gotham truly wanted children they pretty much had to deal with the hand biology had gifted them, lest they wanted to become entangled with the legal issues surrounding adoption in that hell of a city.

The acrid smell of burning wood soon enough reached his nostrils, and he took a moment to savor this, letting his eyes briefly fall shut as he breathed in deeply; somewhat-underdeveloped lungs struggling for air as they always did during periods of intense physical activity. Would all of this help his health in any way? Absolutely not. But, was it immensely satisfying? _Terribly so_. A thin smile played across his lips. If only he'd brought something to drink other than the singular, ambient-temperature bottle of water that had remained after all that preparation. How unsatisfactory.

Oh well, he'd live; and his great-grandmother would turn in her aboveground grave, and now things would go on perhaps a little differently than they always had.

...Or not, considering he'd nearly bleed to death going into labor but half a month after this, and then be plunged into a torrid, several decade long affair of failed job prospects and severe head and bodily injuries courtesy of various vigilantes (although mainly one Jason Todd). The years to come would also necessitate the creation of a pit in his backyard, if only so he had somewhere more permanent to store the results of his more _biological_ failures. At present time, even psychological warfare with Gotham City's own Dr. Hugo Strange was yet to come; not to mention self-serving sexual encounters with the man, culminating in a stabbing.

He'd live, yes, but would he be happy about it? Instinctive pessimism warred with both overconfidence and an arrogant hope inside him, and as time went by he found that he was able to quell neither.

To his credit, it wasn't something he was particularly bothered by at the moment.

He surveyed the land one last time, stone-faced once again. Then he hoisted himself to his feet and habitually patted the side of the truck, lanky limbs swaying as he trudged over to the driver's side. Steel-toed boots made no sound in the tightly packed dirt, although there was a notable _clunk_ as the toe of one shoe caught on the running board on the way into the vehicle. That, however, was rectified snappily; and without even a complaint from the man! Then again, why spoil the calm with more noise? It just wasn't needed.

The engine didn't roar to life but rather grumbled when he turned the keys. He then promptly secured himself in his seat, wincing at the blazing metal of the buckle. With that, he was off. Were anyone else but the dead there, they'd have verified that he was whistling as he made his slow journey back to Gotham City. If someone was tracking him, they weren't sure to appreciate the dose of liquid compound kept in the glovebox. Even _if_ it was in some ways still a work in progress.


End file.
